Thesaurus
by The One Who Dwells In Darkness
Summary: Drabbles, one-shots, possibly poems in the future, all based on words randomly selected from my thesaurus. SLASH. Reviews are my bread and water.
1. Justify

**A/N:** Hello, all! One fine day, I decided to open my beloved thesaurus randomly, to a random page, and point at a random word, then write delightfully slashy Sherlock Holmes fanfics, using the word as my inspiration. Thus, in this way my Thesaurus Shorts came into being. They are unrelated, but they will all most likely feature Holmes/Watson, with perhaps a smidge of Holmes angsting over WatsonxMary. There will be angst and humor and death and love, all featuring the lovely duo of Baker Street or, as I affectionately refer to them, The Dream Team. Well, I've blabbed on quite enough, so, on with the show! But first the disclaimer…

**Disclaimer: **I have heard something about Sherlock Holmes being the public domain, but I really, really do not need to be sued right now, ergo: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, or any other characters from the Sherlock Holmes stories.

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Justify

Holmes justifies his use of harmful drugs, in his mind, at least. He can't use certain arguments against the good doctor's protests and gentle attempts to make Holmes give up the cocaine.

Because, you see, the drugs are simply Holmes' way of dealing with the everyday facts that pain him to no end.

Starting with, of course, the fact that Watson remains oblivious to Holmes' feelings for him.

And the fact that Watson is such a terribly good and moral man that, even if he did know how the seemingly cold detective feels about him, he could never, ever love Holmes the way Holmes does him.

Or the fact that Holmes is so unsure of everything and wouldn't even know how to begin showing his friend the depth of his emotion.

So Holmes makes his little arguments and protestations, and the doctor worries and frets, and Holmes turns back to his ever-present cocaine.

But it's alright, he's perfectly justified.


	2. Debts

**Disclaimer: ** I should think that it is perfectly obvious that I do not actually own Sherlock Holmes. I only own the plots of my writing—and my thesaurus, of course.

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Debts

'Pay up.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Pay up."

'What on earth do you mean?'

'Watson, I have paid off your gambling debts three times in two months. Rather hefty debts, I might add. It is about time you repaid me.'

'But-but-but, Holmes, I haven't any money!'

'I fail to see your point.'

'Holmes, it is the slackest time of the year for my practice. I haven't any money!'

'Hmm...What else can you pay me in?'

'Um...'

'I know!'

'Wha-Mmph!'

...

'Holmes-(kiss)-what-(kiss)-are-(kiss)-you-(kiss)-doing?'

'What does it look like, old boy?'

'Erm...What, exactly, brought this on?'

'I was simply collecting my payment, my dear Watson.'


	3. Delicate

**Disclaimer: ** I do not own Sherlock Holmes. If I did, things would be very…different.

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Delicate

In Holmes' mind, Watson is fragile. It does not matter to Holmes that the doctor, save for his leg and shoulder, is perfectly active and strong.

Watson has survived so much, Holmes reasons, he must be very breakable now. This is why Holmes so often supports the doctor when he limps, or when Watson cannot move because of the pain in his shoulder, or when Watson is merely tired of standing alone. This is why Holmes restrains himself from simply pulling Watson into an embrace and kissing him until the doctor is quite breathless.

Much as Holmes would love, love, love, to do that, he stops himself. If he did that, he could hurt Watson, and just the thought of the dear doctor in pain is hateful to him. Watson is porcelain, thin and small and very, very delicate.

Too delicate for the secretly passionate detective to have, much less hold.


	4. Gleam

**Disclaimer: ** I do not own the boys; I simply borrow them for my own amusement.

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Gleam

Whenever Holmes looks at Watson, he seems to see a shine. It is in Watson's face, in his rosy cheeks, made that way by pleasant laughter; it is in Watson's well-combed chestnut hair, with just that little tuft sticking up in the back that Holmes wants desperately to smooth; it is in Watson's lively hazel eyes, glinting with mischievous amusement. Holmes loves the shine: it seems as though it is for him alone, and that only he sees it. He especially loves the glow that appears to emanate from Watson's very being when Watson looks on him with his eyes that shine with a tender love, a love shared and reciprocated. There is a gleam in Holmes' eyes as well, as he gazes on the one person in this world that he loves, and his heart feels like it is glowing also, gleaming in triumph.


	5. Decay

Disclaimer: Dude, I don't even own a fish, what makes you think I own two of the most beloved fictional characters in English literature?

Decay

I gaze upon your face. It looks calm, peaceful even, as though you were merely asleep.

I wish to God that you merely slept. Then I would not feel as though my heart has been cut still beating out of my chest with a blunt instrument.

Although you look the same as you always have, my love, you do not smell the same-your scent was warm and clean, comforting. Now there is the stench of death upon you, sickly and bitter-sweet and horrid. I can remember occasions where you have smelt like this before, but in the previous occurrences, it was simply because you had been among the dead. Now you are part of them, you belong to them and not to me any longer. Perhaps this is proof that you never did belong to me.

I release a breath I didn't know I'd been holding and inhale, the smell of the gangrene in your wound assaulting my nose afresh. That wound, such a small thing to take you from me--I hate it. I hate that I was powerless to stop the gunshot. I hate the odor of death that permeates the air.

I hate that I can already feel my heart dying without you, blackening and decaying.


	6. Malignant

**Disclaimer:** No, I do not own the lads. Wish to God that I did, though.

**Notes: **I do not write sappy, fluffy, cutesiness just because it's Valentine's Day. I will write that stuff when I want to, but today I'm mildly pissed off, so angst it is.

Malignant

Holmes' words can be cutting when he wants them to be, and, more often than not, these remarks are directed at Watson. Holmes sneers, belittling the doctor's intelligence, making disparaging remarks about his stories of Holmes' cases. He seeks to distance himself from Watson, to hurt him so badly that the good doctor will never again return, never again care for him or be concerned about him. It hurts him, Holmes knows, but Watson never says anything, never does anything to protest against the verbal abuse. Holmes knows it is wrong to hurt his only friend so, but what can he do? He is powerless to stop how he feels about his friend, unable to tell him of his love, shackled by society's rules and ideals.

Thus the words continue, growing harsher with each passing day.


	7. Tumble

**Notes: ** This is for The Phantomess of the Opera. I felt like I owed her some cutesiness, now that I am in a much better mood.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the boys, much as I want to. I only own the plot, dialogue, etc.

Tumble

'Watson, where the devil has the slipper with the tobacco gone?' inquired my dear friend Sherlock Holmes one evening, as I sat before the fire in our rooms on Baker Street.

'I wouldn't know Holmes, I only smoke ships', as you know,' I replied, turning the page of my book idly.

'Bother!' cried Holmes, throwing his hands up and nearly knocking the clock of the mantle. 'I cannot seem to find anything anymore.'

'Well Holmes, perhaps if you actually cleaned this room once in a while, you would not be missing things,' I suggested. Holmes merely glared at me before cracking a slight smile.

'Thank you for the advice, Watson. I appreciate your wisdom,' he chuckled, and then he stepped away from the fire. He tripped, however, on the very tobacco-filled Persian slipper that he been searching for. This would have been of little consequence had the act of tripping and falling not sent him sprawling across my lap, with his thin hands landing on either side of my head, his legs entangled with mine, and our noses very nearly touching, perhaps an inch apart.

I must confess that this turn of events shocked me greatly and I could not speak, but then Holmes slowly, slowly moved even closer, until our lips brushed when he spoke.

'Watson, dear boy, do you object to this?' he asked, his breath ghosting over my lips and sending thrills up my spine.

I grinned cheekily. 'Not at all, Holmes,' I replied. 'On the contrary, I really do think you should stumble more often.'

'Pfft!' he scoffed before kissing me. 'I suppose that now you are grateful that I never tidy this place.'

'Indeed I am, Holmes. Indeed I am.' I kissed him again to prove my point.


	8. Command

**Disclaimer**: I own…well, not a lot actually, except quite a good collection of books that includes 'Sherlock Holmes', as well as 'The Picture of Dorian Gray' by Mr. Oscar Wilde.

Command

'Watson, I have realized something!' Holmes exclaimed as we, or I rather, were enjoying a delicious luncheon that Mrs. Hudson had prepared.

'Hmm. Not an entirely unusual thing for you, Holmes. What have you just realized?' I asked, after finishing a bite of roasted chicken.

He answered, almost as if ashamed, 'I do not know what rank you held in the Army.'

How I laughed when he uttered that sentence! He was the perfect picture of shameful regret, his pale hands folded, bony shoulders slumped, and grey eyes cast down, as though by not knowing one detail about me he had done me some great disservice.

He frowned at me as my laughter began to subside. 'I hardly think it funny that in the few years that we have lodged together I overlooked such an important aspect of your life, Watson. Especially with our recent confession of our feelings for one another.'

'Holmes, you are silly. Do you think that because you did not have a small piece of information about me that I would cease to be friends with you? That I would cease to love you?' I queried, unable to suppress an amused smile.

I could have sworn that I heard him murmur 'Perhaps' but decided that I must have imagined it. 'Good Lord, Holmes, if it is that important to you, I am-or was, I suppose- a Major.'

'Major Watson?' he says, testing the words on his tongue. 'It sounds odd, to say the least.'

'Well, may I return to my lunch now, Holmes?' I asked, looking longingly at the remains of my food.

'I have but one more question, my dear Watson. What rank would I hold, were I to suddenly become extremely foolish and enlist in the Army on the morrow?'

I choked on my tea. I really did. The mere idea of Holmes in the Army was absolutely ludicrous. 'You, Holmes, would be a mere Officer Cadet. You would take orders from me, your rank being so much lower than mine,' I replied with some exasperation.

'Interesting,' mused Holmes.

'Are we quite done?' I inquired.

'Did you command troops, in Maiwand?' he queried curiously.

'Yes,' I replied shortly. Then, out of a desire to 'get back at him', as it were, I said, in my firmest tone, 'Kiss me.'

Holmes smirked at me in his usual fashion. 'Why, is that an _order_, _Major_ Watson?'

'Yes, _cadet_,' I growled before pressing my lips to his.

'I suppose I must listen then, as you outrank me!' he chuckled as he kissed me back.


	9. Existence

**Disclaimer: ** You know, you'd think that after eight chapters people would understand that I own nothing, except an excellent umbrella.

Existence

Crime may be my raison d'être, but without you, my dear, I could not exist. You are my support, my strength when I cannot be strong. You are my assistant, my partner, my love. You are a light in the darkness with which I surround myself. Watson, you are my healer, taking care of me when I am ill, tending me when I am wounded. More than that, you are my savior. Had I not met you that day at Bart's, I would now surely be a hopeless cocaine addict, beyond help and recovery. However, you, my dear friend, you convinced me to give up the drugs. Rather, you did not convince me, as by the time I gave them up, I was so in love with you that I could refuse you nothing. If you could but see all this! If you could only know my feelings without my having to speak about it! I know not what to say, what to do. Tender words, gentle gestures, love; these things are not my forte.

It is as well. You, my dear doctor, could never reciprocate my feelings. This is fine with me. Having you remain by my side is enough to keep me from despair, to give hope to my dreary existence.

For now.


	10. Defend

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Holmes, Watson, or any of the characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Defend

'Damn it, Watson!' shouted Holmes as I lay on the settee in our sitting room so as not to disturb my injured leg. 'You might have told me that your wound was acting up _before_ I dragged you out on this cold night to hunt down the ruffians who kidnapped Madame Haverford's son.'

I frowned a little. 'Ah, but Holmes, if I had told you that, you would have forced me to remain here at Baker Street. Which would have meant YOU entering a dissolute area of the city alone, to fight a group of half a dozen. I could not very well let you do that!'

'Watson, I appreciate that you think of me, and that you felled the man who attacked me, but really! You were also injured, in your game leg no less, when it was already painful! You do not have to constantly rush to my defense,' Holmes growled, crossing his arms and turning his back to me.

'Oh! You know that I would rather be injured myself than see you hurt,' I say gently.

Holmes mutters something indistinct.

'What was that?'

He turns to look at me again. 'I _said_, that it the same with me. I cannot abide it when you are in pain, and when it is on my account...I hate myself for it.'

'Oh, Holmes,' I murmured. He drew closer to me, kneeling by the side of the settee.

'My dear, please, do not trouble yourself with those dark thoughts. I am perfectly alright!' I insisted firmly, taking his hand in mine and petting his hair to sooth him.

He regarded me with solemn silver eyes. 'And what should I do,' he whispered, 'if I were to one day lose you because of that?'

'My dear, I am able to take care of myself,' I reminded him gently.

'As am I!' he shot back angrily, tightening his grip on my hand. 'I just-I would not have any idea of how to do without you. You-you are too much a part of me for me to let you go!'

I gently brought his face closer to mine. 'Why do we not defend each other, my love?' I suggested. 'We do everything else together, why not that? Why do we not take care of one another?'

'Excellent idea, my dear Watson. But not if your wounds are acting up,' Holmes said.

'I refuse to let you venture into dangerous areas alone!' I cried in frustration.

'Never fear, I shall call in some of Scotland Yard's finest to accompany me!' he smirked.

The thought struck me with such horror that all I could say was, 'Oh, Lord!' whilst Holmes laughed and embraced me.


	11. Obvious

**Notes: ** This particular fic is the product of one of my friends being thoroughly pissed off at me, a can of Diet Coke, a small bag of Cheetos puffs, and William Wordsworth poetry. Also, the word 'Obvious'. Oh, yeah, this takes place after 'The Empty House', so Mary's dead. I never liked her, anyway.

**Warnings: ** Um, slight angst, probably some OOCness on Holmes' part…oh, and Watson blowing a fuse.

**Disclaimer: ** I do not own the characters; I own only the plot and dialogue.

Obvious

'Watson, do you love me?' asked Holmes suddenly one day as we took tea in the sitting room.

'What?!' I cried in outrage. 'I have never heard such-such a ridiculous accusation in all my life!'

'Really?' Holmes asked, staring at me keenly and slowly moving closer until he stood very near to my chair, towering over me.

I must confess that his proximity to my person frightened me a little, for I saw a glint that I was unfamiliar with in his mercury-colored eyes as he grinned as widely as a Cheshire Cat.

'Watson, do love me?' he inquired again, his eyes flashing wickedly as he bent his face closer to mine.

'N-no...' My lungs felt odd, as though they might simply deflate any moment.

'Ah, but, my dear Watson, your behavior tells me otherwise!' he smirked.

I recovered some of my courage and managed to make my 'Oh?' sound at least a little challenging.

'Indeed, my friend. Your constant worry for the state of my health-'

'That is because I am your doctor, Holmes!' I cried in indignation.

He continued as though I hadn't interrupted him. 'Your mother-hen mannerisms, your need to know exactly where I am at all times-'

Once again, I burst in with, 'The concern of a friend, you fool!'

'The way your eyes follow me and the way you stare-'

'I do not!' I hissed.

'The way your breathing has sped up due to our closeness at this moment-'

'Good God, man! That's because this is all very strange! Why the cross-examination, Holmes? Hm?' I demanded harshly.

'I simply wanted to be sure of it. I had suspected it for a little while before this, however. Your feelings, Watson, are quite obvious,' he stated.

I balled my hands into fists and closed my eyes, counting carefully and slowly to ten before I opened them and unclenched my hands. 'Very well, Holmes. You are right. I have always-been-always-loved you,' I admitted, slumping down in my chair. 'Are you happy now? Are you proud? Proud that your deductive skills have served you so well?'

'Oh, my dear Watson-'

I sprang up, forcing Holmes to jump backwards to avoid colliding with me. 'Do not call me that!' I shouted, reaching for my cane. 'Do you have any idea, Holmes, how much it pains me when you say that? Do you have any idea how much hope and despair those three words have caused me all these years? Because I know you did not mean them in the sense that I wish you did, because those words are mocking! Yet every time you utter them, I cannot help but feel a small blossom of hope inside me, hope that, perhaps, you felt the same! You have no idea how much this has all plagued me!'

I was waving my cane now, half-blind with fury and shame. All of a sudden, I found my arms pinned to my sides by another pair of arms, lean and wiry and muscular. My emotion at finally being enclosed in these arms was so great that I dropped my cane, and it rolled under the divan, to be forgotten until I needed it later.

However, I was still angry, and shivering in rage. Holmes, bringing one arm up, patted and rubbed my back in soothing circles, while whispering simple nonsense until I was calm again. The adrenaline rush that had accompanied my burst of anger deserted me completely and I felt quite drained and weak, and so had no choice but to lean against Holmes for support, and put my arms around him as well.

Holmes brought his lips to my ear and murmured, 'My dear Watson-'

At those words I started and jumped slightly, but he continued hurriedly, 'My dear Watson, I do mean the words. I mean them every time I say them. In the past, they were my only chance to call you dear, to call you mine! I wished so much to simply tell you. However, I feared that you would become angry, or worse, horrified at what I am. I did not know then what I do now, else I would have tried to tell you so much sooner! Then we need not have wasted so many years pining over our now-obvious mutual affection!' With the last words he crushed me ever tighter to him.

'But-but Holmes, you gave me no sign, no clues, as to your feelings!' I protested weakly. 'Do not say this because you feel guilty for hurting me.'

He raised his head and stared me in the eye. 'No signs? No clues? Watson! (Here his tone turned almost reproachful.) Why on earth do you think I tried so very hard to prevent you from marrying Miss Morstan? Why do you think I did not attend your wedding when you did? I was jealous! I felt as though the fair Miss Morstan was stealing you from me, and I detested that! I...detested her, for a time. Then I loathed myself for being jealous of your happiness. Still, I thought that you must know of my feelings! I felt that I was being perfectly obvious.'

'Oh, Holmes! Now I feel like a dreadful idiot!' I said, shaking my head in remorse.

'That is quite alright Watson; after all, 'We are all fools in love.' I know not who said that, but they may as well have been talking about us directly, for it quite apparent that we are both utter fools!' Holmes crowed, and then placed a kiss on my forehead.

'Fools, indeed!' I muttered quietly.


	12. Outlaw

**Notes: ** WARNING: Angst ahead. It's not my best Angstfic ever (I've gotten too used to writing fluffy humor) but it'll do. My muse deserted me for a bit, as well, so. It's also hard to write good stuff when the Pain Demons have invaded your head and are stabbing you in the brain with electric pitchforks.

**Disclaimer: ** I do not own the boys, but my birthday is approaching, so maybe someone will give them to me?

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Outlaw

My dear Watson, I am so deeply sorry for what I have done. This is my fault entirely.

If I had never told you of what I feel for you, this would not have happened. You, the ever-respectable medical practitioner, would never have acted on your feelings had I not spoken first. You were too unsure, too afraid that I would reject you. I wish to God that I possessed the same inhibitions. I wish that I had kept silent, as I did in the first years of our knowing each other. I tried, my dear Watson, I really did try. I attempted to distance you from me with harsh words and my vices, which were abhorrent to you, even though all I wanted was for you to remain near me. I tried to avoid you, leaving and staying away, often for days at a time. I tried not to stare at you all the time, as I had fallen into the habit of doing.

It did not work, obviously. My feelings, my love; if anything, they grew stronger because of your loyalty and devotion. After I confessed to you, you looked at me with tear-shining hazel eyes and embraced me, promising that we would be together forever.

Our forever lasted for roughly four years.

I was indiscreet, I admit. But you were injured, and as you lay in the hospital bed that night, sheen of sweat on your forehead from the pain you were in, I could not help but lie beside you and hold you and kiss you softly. You seemed so helpless. It was adorable.

Because of that indiscretion, I can no longer look at you, at your handsome visage, at your hazel eyes that shone with trust and love, for ME. I sit in my cell at Reading Gaol, cut away from you forever. I know that you are here, somewhere, but they have separated us.

We are criminals because of our love, and this is my fault.


	13. Peril

**Notes:** I, like Watson, shall now be frank, even though I am Emilie. The last chapter, Eerie, was complete and utter _shit_. I see that now, but I cannot bring myself to remove it. Please, please forgive me, world. I normally don't write such garbage, really. Mostly, it's recycling.

**Disclaimer:** Okay, if I was Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, would I seriously be messing with my own characters and story? Get real.

Peril

I shall be frank. I would die for Holmes.

That is how deeply I care for him. I am willing to place myself in peril that he might remain unharmed. Why, you ask? It is absurdly simple, as Holmes would say.

He is my life.

You see, this is why I endanger my life. I could not bear it if he were ever taken from me. I would not be able to continue with living, I would be empty. I know that Holmes is perfectly capable of looking after himself. He is, after all, an expert swordfighter, singlestick player, and boxer, as well as being skilled in the martial art of baritsu. I know this, and yet I will always rush to his defense.

Because I love him.


	14. Wed

**Notes:** Hi, everybody. There are now TWO people who actually read and review; therefore, those two (you both know who you are) now have my undying love and devotion, as well as some of my famous chocolate chip cookies. Also, warning: Angst is ahead.

**Disclaimer: ** Well, unless Arthur Conan Doyle had a whoooole lot of plastic surgery, I am not him. Ergo, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or his associate, John Watson.

Wed

I remember your wedding day. It was in August, on a warm, sunny day. It was perfect.

I told you that I would not attend, but I did.

The church was not very full-your parents were dead, and Mary's father was as well. There were only friends and a few regulars from your practice. I snuck in late and sat in the very back row. I had run there, all the way from Baker Street, and I had barely remembered and was therefore quite disheveled. I had forgotten both my tie and my hat, and my shirt was buttoned wrong. You would have disapproved greatly had you seen me in that state.

You were standing at the front, holding Mary's hand.

You looked so happy that it broke my heart. Really. Even though you have often said that I had none, I swear that I literally felt my heart shatter into thousands of tiny fragments, too small to ever be repaired.

Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows and cast colorful spots on your face. Was the flicker of sadness I saw in your eyes only my imagination?

The ceremony progressed. When the time came for you to take your vows, I could stand it no longer. But before I stepped outside into the sunlight, I looked at you, fixing your expression of happiness in my mind for ever.

Then I left. Ran like the coward I was, and still am.


	15. Genuine

**Notes: ** Oh, my. I am so happy! There are FIVE people who have read and reviewed!! *squeal* And the reviews have been so very positive! This makes me dreadfully happy-I thank you all: The Phantomess of the Opera, The Beatles Sherlock Holmes Fa, Lady Sally, Seirai-chan, and Pompey. Thank you all so very much. Sorry, I felt the need to get all emotional about it.

**Disclaimer: ** Well. If I owned Sherlock Holmes, I would probably be very rich. However, I am hardly wealthy; therefore I cannot possibly own Sherlock Holmes.

Genuine

Holmes loathes things that are false. He has since he was a child.

Hence why he became a detective: he had to, simply _had_ to discover the truth in everything. He had to separate the real from the surreal and the lie from the truth.

This detestation of deceit is partially why he dislikes women-women with their paints and their powders that conceal who they are-that make masks of pure femininity that they hide behind, acting demure and coy and sweet when they are really waspish and bitter and petty.

However, for all his hatred of falsehoods, the detective has told his share of lies as well. He has told Watson that he has never loved, that he cannot love. This is a gross untruth. Holmes has loved. He still does.

To tell the absolute, complete, and perfect truth, Holmes loves Watson.

Watson is true-truer than everything else in Holmes' complicated life. He is dependable, and he is honest. Beautifully, wonderfully honest. Watson is all that is real and good, and he is Holmes' anchor, he helps him to see the truth. Watson is kind and caring, and his friendship with Holmes is genuine, as well as the regard he holds for the sleuth. Holmes wishes that their truth could change-that the amity, the affection between them might become even more real-that it might become Love, which is the truest thing in the world, after Watson.

Holmes might have been able to admit his feelings to himself, but will he ever be able to tell the truth to Watson?


	16. Bright

**Notes: **Cheerio! Just one thing to say: "I don't do drugs, I am drugs". Actually, Salvador Dali said that, but still, it works. No opium for me! XD No cocaine, either, and no pipes or cigs.

**Disclaimer: **Last time I checked, I wasn't Arthur Conan Doyle. *runs to mirror* Hmm…elderly, NO…mustachioed, NO…a guy, NO…Nope, I'm not him. Therefore I don't own Sherlock.

Bright

I have said before that Watson is not a light but a conductor of light, that rather than being the light he helps me to see it. However, this is untrue. Watson is a light.

No, that description is simply inadequate. Watson is not just any light, like a match or a candle, he...he...he is the sun. Yes, that description fits very nicely. I may sound sentimental and poetic right now, but it is the truth. Watson is my own personal sun. He brings his brightness everywhere he goes; he infuses his words and actions with his light. He gives his warmth and brilliance generously to everyone-even to me, a cold, lonely man who does not understand other people. He does not let me drown in the shadows, but instead bathes me in his luminosity.

On my dark days, and through my even darker nights, he is all that reminds me of warmth and light and everything that is good. He _is_ those things, and he gives them to me abundantly.

I have said before that Darkness does not mourn for the fact that it is Dark, but instead accepts it. I am the exception to this self-made rule. I am Dark, and I want desperately to be with the Light-no, to be _one_ with the Light.

I want his brightness to eat away at my darkness until I, like him, am Light.


	17. Repel

**Notes: **Um…

**Disclaimer: ** This is a fanfiction. Please note the word 'fan'. It means I don't own the characters.

Repel

No.

How could I have done it? How could I have been so stupid? He was never meant to know. I was never going to tell him.

He stood by me through so, so much. Despite everything--my vices, my profession, and the numerous dangers that I thoughtlessly dragged him into--he has remained with me. He has never once abandoned me.

How could I have let impulse rule me at that moment? How could I have let my emotions, repressed for years, burst through the dam?

I did not mean to do it. To kiss Watson. But...we had just returned from a case, a difficult case, and we were celebrating in our rooms at Baker Street. A glass of brandy each was all the alcohol we had, so I could not afterward claim to be inebriated. We were joking, and Watson laughed--such a deep, rich, hearty sound. His hazel eyes shone in the lamplight, his hair was still damp from our chase through the rain that was still falling outside, and I thought he was absolutely beautiful.

I had long known of my deviant feelings for him, but I had tried to conceal them, to smother them with cocaine.

Needless to say, it did little to help. Watson was always there, always by my side. Nothing I did or said could drive my stalwart doctor from me. Still, I had hidden my feelings, or tried to.

On that night, I could restrain myself no longer.

I kissed him. My dear, innocent, moral doctor. I kissed him.

It was the most wonderful moment of my life. His lips were so soft, so sweet. I closed my eyes and imagined that he was reciprocating the kiss.

He wasn't. He pushed me away from him, roughly, and I stumbled, near-drunk on my euphoria at having finally, finally doing something I had wanted to do since almost the first moment of our acquaintance.

He shouted, and my happiness suddenly evaporated. He was yelling, yelling things I did not comprehend, so shocked and kiss-drunk was I.

He brought his hand up as though to strike me, but stopped himself at the last moment, choosing instead to run from the room, and out of my life.

I had finally driven him away.


	18. Fright

**Notes: ** I've been sick in bed for two days with nothing much to do, but this idea popped into my head and I simply had to write it. *coughing fit* Please, leave kind reviews. Maybe they'll help me heal. Also, this is probably like, the most suggestive piece I've ever written in my entire life. Seriously.

**Disclaimer: ** No, I don't own Holmes. But a girl can dream, right?

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Fright

Miss Cecile Beauregard, one of the season's newest debutantes, approached the corner where I stood, engaged in animated conversation with my dear Watson. The only reason the two of us were at this crush was because we had been invited by Lord Havenford as a sort of payment for our work in the safe return of some of his family heirlooms.

Miss Beauregard stood just inches from me, much closer than was really proper. I could smell her perfume--a heady floral scent that was murder on my unfortunate nose.

'Mr. Holmes?' she asked in a simpering tone that was probably meant to be coy. 'My friends and I were wondering if you wished to join us at our table over there.' She gestured with one dainty, silk-gloved hand at a table on the other side of the room at which sat a large group of young ladies--I was hard-pressed to hold back a shudder.

I turned to Watson for support, but he gave me a look that said plainly 'Holmes, I shall abandon you for THE REST OF THIS TERRIBLY BORING PARTY IF YOU DO NOT SOCIALIZE A LITTLE', and I was therefore chose the lesser of two evils and followed Miss Beauregard back to her friends.

I was introduced to a group of silly, simple-minded young females, who giggled amongst themselves whenever I said something, even though the things I said were thinly-veiled insults towards them. They did not seem to notice.

I sipped at my whiskey-and-soda and was greatly surprised when I felt a hand on my arm. I turned, expecting that it was Watson, come to rescue me from this infernal tedium, but rather, it was yet _another_ young lady.

'Mr. Holmes, I have heard so much about you,' she gushed. 'I should like greatly to someday employ your _services_.'

I was shocked at her suggestive words and tone! Not to mention rather disgusted, at the mere thought of...Oh, I simply cannot contemplate it!

More ladies approached me until I was surrounded. They held me fast, stroking my hair and saying such...such things! It was dreadful. I looked across the room to where Watson ought to have been, but he was not there. I scanned the room as best I could while distracted by shameless women, but he was nowhere to be found.

The women pressed ever closer to me, pawing at my clothes, and saying over and over, 'Holmes, Holmes, Holmes, Holmes, Holmes...'.

Miss Beauregard leant in and pushed her face close to mine, puckering her lips as she moved closer, closer...

'NOOOOOOOO!!'

I sat up in bed, gasping and drenched in sweat. It took me a minute to get my bearings, the horror of my dream was still with me.

Watson stirred beside me and opened his eyes, which we concerned and bleary.

'Holmes?' he murmured, raising his hand and stroking my damp hair back from my face.

I leant into his touch gratefully, breathing deeply with relief.

'Did you have a nightmare?' Watson asked softly, moving his hand to the side of my face.

'Yes, oh, God, Watson, it was horrible. We were at a party...and you made me be social, and the ladies surrounded me, and...And they said such AWFUL things, and tried...to k-k-kiss me!' By the end of my explanation, my voice had risen in pitch. 'And you...you were nowhere to be found!'

'Oh, my dear, dear Holmes! I would never allow such a thing to happen,' Watson whispered, softly kissing my forehead. 'I love you far too much.'

'My dearest Watson,' I replied tenderly. 'I am so fortunate to have you, love.'

'By-the-by, Holmes, what sort of things DID the women say in your dream? You said it was awful, but you did not say in what way.'

I frowned, annoyed with him at ruining a moment. 'They were quite...suggestive, if you must know.'

'Oh?' He raised one eyebrow in surprise.

'Indeed.' I shuddered. 'I was appalled.'

'What did they say?' asked Watson, while placing kisses along my jaw.

'Things which I should only like to hear from you, darling!' I answered wickedly, in revenge for his ruining our moment earlier.

'Really?' Watson queried, pulling away to look at me. 'Well then, I shall have to oblige you...'

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The next morning when we dragged ourselves from the comfort of our bed, Mrs. Hudson greeted us with some news.

'Oh, Mr. Holmes, Doctor, an invitation arrived for you both a while ago! From some Lord Havenford. The lad who delivered it said that the Lord is throwing some sort of party!'


	19. Repel in the point of view of Watson

**Notes: ** In looking over some previous chapters of 'Thesaurus', I have discovered the two things I detest above all else: SPELLING AND GRAMMAR ERRORS. As well as occasions when I left words out or changed a sentence halfway through so it has words that don't make sense. These mistakes are entirely my own, as I do not have a beta. Actually, to tell the truth, I have far too much pride to get a beta. You might even call it arrogance. It's a fault, I know, but what can you do? Well, I write my little unrelated plots on the spur of the moment, so I'll attribute mistakes to that. Also, I love the seven people who have read and reviewed. And because Faersul asked so nicely, here is Repel in Watson's point of view.

**Disclaimer: ** I own a pair of socks with watermelons on them and a huge gaping hole in the toe of the left one, but I don't own Sherlock Holmes.

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Repel in the point of view of Watson

Oh, Holmes, Holmes, why?

Why did you do that? Why must things be like this?

I never knew, never even CONSIDERED the possibility that you could love me. Such an upright man as yourself could never hold such deviant feelings!

I was wrong, and I was blind.

And you KISSED me. That night, after the case, you kissed me.

You were not drunk. I knew that much and neither were you under the influence of your drugs. You had not been near the cocaine in a month.

Oh! Was that why? You gave up the drugs to please me? You knew how much I detested that particular vice of yours.

I digress. You kissed me, and I...I felt only revulsion as your lips were laid on mine.

You sighed and I pushed you away from me in disgust. I began shouting as my infamous temper got the better of me. You stumbled and were silent, and you allowed me to run.

My dear Holmes, why did you do it?


	20. Undeserving

**Notes: **Thank you to dwells-in-the-night for your well-wishes! I feel much better now; a slight cough is all that remains of my terrible illness. Okay, terrible is a bit of an exaggeration, but I hate being ill, so it felt terrible.

**Disclaimer: ** I own several cherry-patterned handkerchiefs, but not Sherlock Holmes. *sniffle* I'll just go dry my tears with one of my hankies.

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Undeserving

'I love you.'

Holmes' silver eyes went wide at my bold declaration. His hand rose to his lips as though to keep his words in. It had little effect.

'No!' he rasped. 'No, Watson. You cannot mean that. You cannot love me. No.' He took a small and, it appeared to me, unwilling, step back.

'But Holmes, it is true. I love you.' I extended my arms in an invitation of an embrace.

'Watson!' he said desperately. 'You mustn't love me! Take the words back. Say that you don't love me! Please, say that you don't love me.'

'Why, Holmes? Why must I not love you?' I asked in great confusion. I knew that he appeared to abhor the softer emotions, but I never thought he would deny so vehemently the thought that anyone could love him.

'Watson, you cannot understand! Just don't. Let us never speak of this again.'

'Holmes, I have just told you of feelings that I have kept hidden for a long time-'

'No! Stop, please! Cease, desist! Just stop saying that you love me...' he trailed off miserably.

'Why, my dear Holmes?'

He averted his gaze from mine, his face slightly turned from me. When he spoke, it was in the faintest of whispers, 'Because I do not deserve your love, my dear, dear Watson.'

I was shocked at this statement. 'Holmes, why on earth would you be undeserving of my love? You are likely the worthiest, most deserving man I will ever know!' I cried, stepping closer to him. He did not move away as I laid my hand on his shoulder, but he shuddered a little.

'My dear Watson!' he moaned quietly. 'I do not deserve you.'

'Why, Holmes? Tell me and let me decide for myself.'

'Oh, Watson. My vices, for a start. The fact that I constantly abuse you verbally and act coldly towards you. The fact that I always unthinkingly drag you into unnecessary danger. The fact that even when you tend me when I'm wounded, I still manage to find some silly little way to hurt you. The way I always ignore your concern for me. These reasons are simply the beginning of a very long list of reasons why you should not love me! I do not deserve you, much as I wish I could!' Holmes cried, pushing my hand off his shoulder.

'But Holmes,' said I, carefully, so carefully placing my arms around him, 'You do. It is not you who is unworthy, my friend, but I. You have it entirely backwards. John Watson, poor, crippled, retired army surgeon, can hardly deserve of the love of so brilliant, so intelligent, so ingenious a man as Sherlock Holmes, unofficial consulting detective.'

'My dear Watson!' murmured Holmes. 'Don't say that. It's a lie. A falsehood, and you know how much I detest falsehoods. I am the undeserving one, not you. Really.'

I was becoming annoyed by this conversation. 'Holmes, why do we not stop arguing about which of us is unworthy and simply enjoy each other's presence?'

Holmes shrugged and moved his face close to mine. 'It is true that I enjoy your presence, dear friend, but that does not change the fact that I don't deserve it!'

'You must always have the last word, mustn't you, Holmes?' I asked, smiling a little.

'Yes,' Holmes replied simply, and proceeded to give me a kiss which in my opinion we both deserved.


	21. Ordinary

**Notes: **Hello. I have returned to 'Thesaurus' after a two-week holiday. The first week was actually a holiday, and during the second week, I was much too tired to write. Also, I have received reviews which have left me most confused. The excellent Faersul is of the opinion that Holmes and Watson (Holmes especially) are too open with their feelings. All other reviews have told me that these pointless, plot less little fics are good the way they are. I don't know what to do, because I don't want to disappoint anybody. Help me.

**Disclaimer: ** I'm too tired to write anything even remotely witty or clever, so: I don't own Sherlock Holmes.

Ordinary

I am very well aware that I am not the most ordinary of men. I am, after all, gifted with mental faculties that surpass the vast majority of the population, though certain people (Lestrade, for instance) would have you believe otherwise. For example, by citing me as an 'amateur detective' in a certain newspaper article.

I am coming away from my original point. I am not an ordinary man. An ordinary man does not practice the violin during the small hours. An ordinary man does not have Scotland Yarders knocking down his door on a regular basis. An ordinary man does not have attacks made on his life.

An ordinary man _feels._

I do not feel. I am emotionless, a thinking machine. I am a brain. The rest of me is merely an appendix.

This is what I repeat to myself, day after day, but I should not have to continually tell myself these things, because they are TRUE.

I do not need the company of others, because ordinary people require companionship, and I am anything but ordinary.

I do not love! No, I have never loved, and I never will. Love is a weakness. It clouds the mind, destroys logic. It is quite useless.

An ordinary man does not shun friendly touches--the clasping of hands, the gripping of a shoulder, an embrace.

I shun them all.

I do not need this, this foolish thing called _Love_, and I never will. I shall never desire it, and I shall never love anyone, or need anyone. Never.

Never.

I do not need him.

Never.


	22. Lateness

**Notes: ** I am a bad, bad author. I have not written anything for this series in a long time, and to the people crazy enough to like these little odds and ends, I apologize heartily. I will admit that my confidence in writing these was somewhat shaken by constructive criticism that I received. I hope I've improved with these –this one is probably my current favourite- but if I haven't, tell me.

**Disclaimer: **If I owned them, I wouldn't write fan fiction of them, would I?

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It was terribly late or horrifically early, depending on your perspective, when Doctor John Watson stumbled almost drunkenly along the wide, dark way of Baker Street, occasionally stepping in a puddle of light from the streetlamps. He was returning from an absolutely nightmarish shift at the hospital that he had recently begun working at. The place had been positively swamped with people that evening, and he had been forced to run about from patient to patient because they had been short-staffed.  
Finally, when the last urgent case had been looked after (a woman giving birth to triplets; he had been bloody up to the elbows), it was nearing two o'clock in the morning and, satisfied that they would be fine for the rest of the night without him, he had washed his hands, shrugged half-way into his black wool coat, collected his hat and his cane, and exited the hospital.  
Which brings us back to the scene of that poor, exhausted man limping his way up Baker Street with his hat on backwards.  
When he reached the door of 221B, he fumbled quickly in his coat pocket for his keys and breathed a relieved sigh when he found them, though he nearly dropped them while attempting to fit his house-key into the lock. Upon the lock giving a sharp _click!_ He opened the door and removed his coat and hat, setting them on the banister, and then turned to lock the door once again.  
That task finished, he trudged quietly up the stairs to the sitting room, intending to pour himself a night-cap and fall into a blissful, dreamless sleep and not expecting Holmes to still be awake, as he had told him not to wait up for him before he had left for the hospital.  
However, when he reached the sitting room, he was greeted by the strains of violin music and the sight of Holmes standing near the mantel playing his oft-used Stradivarius. Holmes stopped playing to say quietly, 'Do sit down, my dear Watson, you're quite dead on your feet,' and place his violin back in its case.  
Watson lumbered over to his armchair and sank down gratefully into its squashy comfort, breathing a contented breath.  
He closed his eyes and the next thing he knew, Holmes was by his side with that much-wanted night-cap, saying 'Drink up, and let's get you to bed.' Watson obeyed, and soon found himself bundled under the covers of his bed, trying and failing to keep his eyes open while Holmes said good-night.  
When the good doctor had finally succumbed to the siren call of slumber, Holmes softly placed a kiss on the sleeping man's forehead and slipped silently out of the room and into his own bed.


	23. Civilized

Notes: Fanfiction, darling, I'm home! What? No, I don't smell like deviantART's cologne. No, that's not a handkerchief with the monogram dA in my pocket. I just…stepped out for a while. But look what I brought home: a lovely little Holmes/Watson oneshot!

Disclaimer: I don't own them; I'm just a naughty child who plays with the toys before putting them back on the shelf.

Civilized

'Quite the story, that Oscar Wilde case.' Watson's voice was gruff, and shattered the quite serenity of the rooms at 221B Baker Street. He had just looked up from his newspaper at Holmes, who was curled up cat-like in his armchair, smoking his pipe and wearing his faded purple dressing-gown. The agony column of the paper lay crumpled on the floor near him.

Holmes was silent for a minute, looking thoughtful, and then replied in an absent tone, 'Yes, I suppose.'

'He'll be spending two years in the Reading Gaol, it says,' continued Watson, taking a sip from the cup of aromatic tea that he had placed on the side-table. 'And all because he had the nerve to love one of his own sex.'

Holmes paused a moment, mercury-coloured eyes focused sharply on the good doctor. 'I would have thought that you, my dear Watson, with your fine, upstanding morals and principles, would have been one of the staunchest supporters of the Marquess,' said the detective quietly.

'You know that am not going to judge a human being based merely on something as trivial as who he or she is attracted to," returned Watson, after a moment. 'It is not something one can help.'

Holmes removed his pipe from his mouth suddenly, saying, "And yet it is not something done in polite, civilized society.'

There was a pause.

'Wilde is lucky,' exclaimed Holmes suddenly.

"Lucky?" The doctor's tone was incredulous, his eyes wide. "The man is going to prison, he'll be forever cut off from his loves ones, he'll have no income once he's out of prison, and you call him lucky?"

Holmes regarded him coolly. "I do not mean that he was lucky in his sentencing, although he was, for years ago the penalty was death. I mean that he was lucky to have his love returned, however briefly it may have been and however disastrously it may have ended. He was lucky." The last word had an odd, wistful inflection.

Suddenly, the detective stood, crossed the room, and picked up his Stradivarius, turning his back on Watson.


	24. Distant

Notes: Wow, life got busy. I'm so sorry that I haven't added to this in forever, but it got pretty stressful for me. Without further ado, the writing.

Disclaimer: I do not own and do not claim to own Sherlock Holmes.

Distant

_Doctor Watson-_

No. No, that won't do at all.

_Watson-_

No, that's not right, either.

_My dear friend-_

No.

_My dear Watson-_

I cannot write to him. No matter how much I wish to alleviate the grief that I am sure he is feeling, my Watson being the caring and fiercely loyal man that he is, I cannot. To do so would place us both at risk, for Mycroft has informed me that Moriarty's agents are watching the good doctor. I must keep silent for a while yet, but my Watson is strong, and he has his wife to support him. The distance between us will lessen as I hunt down Moriarty's remaining agents, and I shall someday return to him. For now, I can only write letters that will never be sent.

_My dearest Watson-_


	25. Triangle

Notes: Heaven and Hell, we go from that short little snippet of writing to this monstrous monster of a oneshot, which practically wrote itself, oddly enough. Lestrade decided to bitch at Holmes, and who am I to stop him?

Disclaimer: This story is mine, but the characters and settings are not.

Triangle

As soon as Watson stepped out to visit his club, giving Lestrade and Holmes a chance to speak privately after three years of silence, Lestrade spoke.

'You didn't have to watch him fall apart,' the little Inspector stated flatly as he stood before Holmes in the sitting room of 221B, now again in use since Holmes' miraculous return from the dead. He clutched his bowler in one black-gloved hand, but wasn't fidgeting with it as he normally did while speaking to the consulting detective.

'Lestrade-'

The man in question held up his hand. 'I don't want your excuses, Mr. Holmes. I'm simply stating facts. The good doctor fell apart without you, thinking you dead these three years. And you hadn't even the decency to write to him.'

'I-'

'Mr. Holmes, you know that after your "death" he lost his wife, as well? And yes, he mourned for her, but he mourned more for you. He became a shadow-didn't eat, worked odd hours, neglected himself utterly-all because of you.'

Holmes, seated in his armchair, began to protest. 'Inspector, you understand that for me to be truly believed dead, _Watson_ had to believe that I was dead, or his account of the events would have been seen through in moments, an occurrence-' Once again Holmes was interrupted.

'So that is how you see your friend,' Lestrade scowled at Holmes, giving him the look he usually reserved for too-cocky young constables who didn't know their place. 'As a fool who cannot even make his grief believable, though he does know what grief feels like. For Heaven's sake, the man was in a war! He lost comrades, friends! And the doctor is no fool, I assure you. I've learned that in your absence, Mr. Holmes. I used to regard him with some distaste, thinking that he followed you around like a lapdog, but no longer. I've found a respect for him in these three years, but that seems to be something that you, even after many more years of friendship, still do not have for him.'

Holmes sprang up from his chair, eyes a furnace. 'Inspector Lestrade, I have all respect for Watson. However, I do not respect his acting abilities-'

'Though you should!' interjected Lestrade. 'Have you never seen him play at Charades? The man's a genius! His impression of Gregson-spot on! The lads at the Yard never laughed as much as that night.'

Some of Holmes' anger faded, replaced by something else, and he sat down again. 'When did Watson ever do Charades?'

The Inspector rolled his eyes. 'At the Yard's New Year's Eve party last year, as you would know if you had bothered to ask him about what he's been doing while you jaunted around Europe. We invited him down, partly because he has been working with us a police surgeon, and partly because we like him, Mr. Holmes.'

'Police surgeon?' Holmes' voice held a tone of puzzlement.

'Yes, and he does a bang-up job of it, too. Not to mention that he does a great job of patching up the lads after rough cases, and he cares, really and truly cares. The young constables respect him so much, and Hawking began considering entering medicine after he met the doctor.' Lestrade gave a small smile, a mere quirking of the lips, but Holmes noticed it, eyebrows furrowing over sunken grey eyes as he contemplated that smile.

'He's been working with you?' asked Holmes, still puzzling.

'Yes. I just said that.'

'So he's been at the Yard every day.'

'Most days, yes.'

'So, you say he had been falling apart, but then joined the Yard as a police surgeon and everything was fine and dandy.' Skepticism was highly evident in Holmes' remark.

Lestrade snorted, transferring his bowler hat from his right hand to his left. ;Of course not. It took ages to stop him from coming to work with a face like a tombstone, but working at the Yard doesn't allow for much time to mope, you know, and he soon improved. He began eating properly again, and we often went out to supper-'

'At Simpson's?'

'Yes. He wouldn't go near the Royale.'

'I see.'

'And so his health improved and so did his mood, and then you came back and frightened the living daylights out of him.'

Watson, of course, chose that moment to return home from his club, entering the sitting room with an easy smile first aimed at Lestrade, then Holmes.

'Are you two still catching up? Oh, my, I chose a bad time to come home,' the doctor chuckled, starting towards his room. Holmes jumped to his feet.

'No, the Inspector was just leaving, actually.' He turned towards Lestrade, offering his hand. 'You'll make sure to contact me, if a case of interest should arise?'

The Yarder shook the proffered hand and replied, 'Yes, of course. I'll be certain to drop by again. Don't forget, Doctor, that you've an autopsy scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.'

Watson regarded him with affectionate amusement. 'I've never forgotten an appointment, Inspector, you know that.'

'Indeed. Well, good evening Mr. Holmes, and good evening Doctor.' With a tip of his bowler hat and one last smile at Watson, the Inspector departed.

Watson yawned. 'I believe I'll turn in, Holmes; I find myself quite tired. Good night.' Watson turned and entered his bedroom.

Holmes sat awake, contemplating Lestrade's words and actions, particularly his odd smile when he spoke of Watson.

It took him a pipe of strong shag tobacco and nearly three hours, but he figured it out.


End file.
